I'm Breaking Up With Martha Stewart!
But we have reached the end, Martha.
There was a time when I thought we could be friends. I thought we could talk about homemade holiday cards, farm fresh eggs or perhaps the stint in that prison in Alderson, West Virginia. (Being from West Virginia, I actually know where that is).
However, it’s obvious that things are not going to work out between us. I’m tired of the perfect gingerbread houses, the Canitoe Corners honey from your own hives, twine for this and birch-bark for that.
I’m overwhelmed by the admonitions to raise my own chickens, print my own stationery, or God forbid, make anything that involves dill.
I don’t need calendars to remind me to order the vegetable and cutting flower seeds for spring planting, to knit mittens or to deadhead spent hyacinths. I can barely remember to call the exterminator and to take out the trash.
Frankly, I have a job that requires me to be out of the home. When I return home, I’m likely not going to whip up an apple streudel with butter that I churned myself. I NEED more than four hours sleep per night. And guess what? Nobody actually cares if I raise a dog that belongs in the Westminster Dog Show.
While I still appreciate the sheets and towels, I’m going to give up my magazine subscription. It’s time for me to give up the dream (and the pressure). I’m happy resorting to take out pizza on occasion and buying Eggland’s Best. My family has yet to complain about the confections I buy at the bakery or the fact that their Valentine’s Day cards originate from the local drugstore. In fact, no one seems particularly unhappy with my homemaking skills. (Unless you count my stepson’s aversion to my baked ziti).
So goodbye, Martha. I’m happy that I’ve contributed to your global empire but you’re going to have a few less dollars and cents.
But if you ever find yourself in Alderson again, I’m open to a call. Looks like I’m going to have some free time on my hands.